


true north

by roguepath



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Polytravelers, Spoilers, every traveler gets some therion time™, it's not a main focus but it's there, seriously‚ don't even read the description if you haven't finished CH4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-13 08:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguepath/pseuds/roguepath
Summary: ( spoilers for every route ahead! )it's believing in people that makes us strong.in the aftermath of wellspring, eight words of faith stir memories of a sentiment therion is all too familiar with. as he makes for northreach to recover the dragonstones, he realizes he can recover something else too — albeit, in a different way than he thinks.or: a collection of traveler vignettes, centered around therion's character development in chapters three-four.





	1. but this is my own problem

**Author's Note:**

> when i went through therion’s chapter three, i knew i had to write something for it at some point. while i already loved his character before, it wasn’t up until his chapter three that i fell in love with his character, and his chapter four all but sealed the deal.
> 
> so, to kick things off we’ll start with our favorite apothecary! something pre-CH3 cordelia, but still something to give him small pushes without pushing on his own individual narrative too much. 
> 
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy! (and pay attention to that tarot imagery, that’s important :9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the battle with gareth, alfyn treats therion for his wounds, but brings up some old scars — in more ways than one.

Therion remembers that once, Tressa traded for a deck of cards while on the road. Capable of being used for playing, true, but also of divination; mentioned that the make of it was a rare one indeed, so the haggling was easily a victory in her eyes.

(The group’s funds did beg to differ, though. To his credit, Therion had the mind to snag a good number of items off the merchants at Grandport, so it would put some weight back in their pockets.)

Cyrus said that it’s a new art — one of the occult, with two distinct categories: Major and Minor Arcana. Symbolizing different meanings, all possibilities for a person’s being, past or future. His lecture on the exacts of it went in one ear, out the other, as they often did. That is, until Tressa followed the instructions she was told, and does a reading for the group, and at Therion —

— she pulls the Tower. For disaster and upheaval. For fear of change.

No analysis nor speculation was needed then.

For Therion, the Tower may as well be the Cliffside.

To the kid’s credit, she simply frowns — and inasmuch he loathes the glint of what _felt_ like pity in her eyes — she keeps her thoughts brief, and moves on.

But what seemed like an unlucky coincidence turns out to be prophetic, when Darius makes his appearance to steal away the emerald dragonstone, and leaves a hollow ache in his chest with every blow dealt, every hit taken from his men, and every step away from the scene of the crime.

* * *

As soon as they return to Wellspring, Alfyn insists on giving them a thorough checkup. The battle was a hard won one, a small respite being that the group was a familiar with the techniques that Gareth used; underhanded attacks, feints to lower their guard, tricks as dirty as his trade.

Therion’s familiar with the routine of the apothecary’s checkups, so by the time Alfyn works his way to his room he’s shed his trademark scarf and shawl with only his trousers and undershirt — left unbuttoned with a layer of bandages wrapped around his abdomen, blotches of red bleeding through.

“Good grief,” Alfyn begins with a click as his tongue as he shuts the door behind him and gets to work, checking how he moves his arms, legs. He then moves on to the gash wound from earlier, courtesy of Gareth’s nastier tricks, one that had drained Therion of his energy and left him almost unable to stand, had it not been for Ophilia. “I knew you were one of the less severe cases around these parts, but still — he did quite a number on us, didn’t he?”

Therion frowns, and to the other’s credit, if he noticed the clenched jaw, the tense shoulder, makes no note of it. “Mmhm.”

“Tress told me earlier that the plan’s t’ stay here a day or two. While we gotta get you back to Bolderfall, waitin’, even at least till the wounds close up takes priority.”

“Mmhm.”

“...And also, I reckon I’ll try an’ live in the mountains for the rest of my years. Maybe see if I can catch myself a Chubby Cait.”

“Mmhm.”

“Think I’ll name him Bat if I do. Geddit, cat with a bag — c’mon, Therion are ya listening?”

He grunts, giving a roll of his eyes in the same motion. “I hear you, doc. Anything you wanna say?”

It’s Alfyn’s turn to frown, giving him a look as he removes his undershirt, and examines his bandages. “Didn’t ya hear me? Said I was gonna catch a Chubby Cait, name him Bat, ‘cause — ...” His voice falters, and when Therion glances at his face, his brows are furrowed in thought.

“What.”

“Therion.” His tone is firm, quite the change from his light-hearted, joking tone from only moments before. “These scars on your shoulder… Your side.” His hands stop short of contact, hovering just above where the skin was rough and lighter with scarring, rather than as dark as the rest of his body should be. Sure, there were other scars, from what Therion remembers are a mixed bag of scratches, slashes, and other misadventures…. But these. These took up a good portion of his right side, even continuing onto his back.

“We saw these b’fore, didn’t we? With Prim’s friend, back in Sunshade.”

Oh, Sunshade. A difficult place to forget, hardly for the entertainment or the company, but for the events that took just outside of its catacombs. When that bastard had pushed Primrose’s friend — Yusufa, Therion remembers— the group found her near death. It was nothing short of a miracle they got her treated, got her somewhere safe and sound, free of the man she and Primrose so loathed to call master.

What spurred him to rush, to bark orders for Cyrus accompany Primrose to battle while he and Alfyn treated to her wounds, he  _ wish _ he didn’t know. At the time, the apothecary’s surprise was written clear on his face as Therion volunteered to use his shawl to lay her on, to wash out the dirt in her wounds, was undoubtedly a mystery to their group. But now, knowing what he does, Alfyn only shows a grave sense of understanding.

“You mentioned that Darius guy betrayin’ ya, didn’t you…” He mutters, earning a hard glare from Therion. “Sayin’ that he used you, and — and what you said t’ me about Vanessa —” While Alfyn’s tone remains firm, his shoulders, as do his now curled fists, shake with anger.

Therion, meanwhile, stays silent, the memories of his past interactions, and the realization of how much his partner had an effect on how he carried himself — how he treated everyone, warning them of seemingly “good” intentions — still a bitter one, indeed.

“Don’t tell me he… He  _ pushed _ ya off a cliff…?”

“Then I won’t say that,” Therion scoffs, but lacking the same bark that it came with.

_ “Therion,” _ Alfyn stresses, running his free hand through his hair. “Listen here. I know this ain’t any of my business —”

“Damn right it isn’t,” he hisses.

“—but, damn it all, you didn’t deserve that! And you sure as hell don’t have to carry all of this on your own, alright?” 

Therion scowls in his silence, his gaze to the side.  _ “That _ was my own mistake,” he mutters, his voice near a growl. “My own fault for trusting him —”

“And d’you think that Prim, and Ophilia, or me — you think that we deserved that bull for being too trusting? Huh?”

He blinks, eyes wide at the notion. Brows furrowed in both surprise and righteous anger at the memories of their respective betrayals. “Wh-What,  _ no, _ you three — you three had your trust taken for granted, but  _ I—” _

“You,” Alfyn begins, pointing a finger. “Had your trust taken for granted too, and while ya think we didn’t deserve what we got — don’t think the same for yourself.”

Only a sharp inhale is heard as he flinches away, and as much as Therion tries to glare and snap back at him, the hollow  _ ache _ in his chest betrays him. A bitter truth to swallow, one left ignored for years on end. One that he tried to run away from, but still,  _ still _ stayed close to, finding such an occasional return to the town so close where he’d been left to rot it may as well had been a shackle of its own.

So rather than accept it, and just  _ do _ as his mind says he should, Therion gets up. 

Never mind that he’s in the middle of treatment, without his shawl or his scarf. That it hurts to even move much less run. That it’s a temporary solution to his long-left phantoms.

Or so he tries. Because three running steps are all it takes before Alfyn simply picks him up —

(“What the Hell—?!  **_ALFYN!_ ** _ LET ME DOWN! _ Just leave it okay — _ ” _

“—Right, right. Not before I do what I came here to do — to patch you up. Don’t forget, you’re still a patient.”)

— and sets him back on his bed. 

“I promise I’ll get outta your hair — and I’m sorry ‘bout prying,” Alfyn says, his tone gentle, albeit firm, one that Therion’s heard many a time with his more stubborn patients — a category that he’s now fallen squarely into. “But you still need need some patching up. ‘sides—” He chuckles, eyes crinkling in mirth. “—wouldn’t do for ya to storm out on me without fresh bandages.” A beat. “Or a shirt.”

Therion groans as he gives him a lousy hit on the shoulder, burying his face into his free hand in the same motion, getting only a snicker from the other. 

But to his credit, while the apothecary’s words cut deep — much too deep — he gets back to work quietly, removing the bandages and replacing them with new, clean ones, as though he hasn’t struck where it hurt and cracked the thief open.

And Therion doesn’t argue — doesn’t try to fight him on it. With a good handful of salt in a still-fresh wound, courtesy of Darius, the very  _ last _ thing he’d need is try and argue with Alfyn on his health. He’d been there to see him handle Ogen, after all, and with the shitstorm the day’s been, he’d save himself the contest in brute strength.

The minutes that follow are muted ones, the only thing out of Alfyn being the occasional hum as he works. The quiet is restless — always is, with the weight of the bangle on his arm, but since the Black Market, it’s been on the brain less and less, instead taken up by the past… And the future. Of what would await him back in Bolderfall, and with Darius.

It would be a long, long journey. Definitely.

But for now, he sits on his bed in Wellspring. With only an earnest apothecary for good company.

“Welp,” Alfyn says, after cleaning and re-bandaging the last of his wounds. “That should do ‘er. Remember, no strainin’ activities for a while. You’re outta the woods, sure, but the wounds’ll only get worse if you push yourself before they heal. Tell me if it hurts t’ breathe in the bandages, or if somethin’s up.”

He stands himself up, and begins to gather his stuff into his bag. And as he does so, out of all the things that Therion could expect to say —

“I’m sorry.”

— certainly isn’t one of them.

Alfyn, understandably, shares the sentiment. “Wait, for—?”

“For everything,” he mutters after a pause, fixing the floor with a glare. “I know — I  _ know _ I’ve gotten us in some  _ fantastic _ situations; breaking and entering, sneaking into a black market... But this — this is my own problem. Tried to hide it, but…” He grimaces as he gives a frustrated sigh. The events at the Black Market say the rest. 

“There was what happened earlier too,” Therion continues, his tone even, but low and remorseful. “So. There’s that. Again, I’m sorry.”

A pause, before Alfyn simply smiles as he slips his satchel onto his shoulder. “I told ya already, haven’t I? You’re not alone on this, and I guarantee ya — we’ll help you see it through to the end.”

Therion remains silent, save for a soft sigh. “...Right.”

“We’ll worry ‘bout the rest in the morning. Just get some rest tonight, alright? Doctor’s orders.”

He nods, buttoning up his shirt as he does. “Gotcha.”

“Good to hear. G’night, Therion!”

Alfyn makes his way for the door waving a small goodbye, and as his free hand brushes the handle —

“Hey.”

Brows raise at the voice, for good reason. Therion initiating conversation, a rarity, sure, but him extending one… 

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget, I still owe you a drink. ...Maybe once we get back to Bolderfall.”

His eyes widen, and his grin grows the wider. “Sounds like a date!”

Therion barks out a laugh, leaning back as he does. “R _ iiiight. _ Watch your wording, doc.”

“Heh. Alright, g’night again, Therion!”

And so he leaves, and Therion is left with only himself, and the bangle on his arm. To little surprise, even as he eases into bed, sleep doesn’t come easily. Instead, many things sit on his chest. 

Restlessness. Memories. Guilt. Fear. 

Memories were always unwanted company. Sentiment still seeped into his everyday, and sure — he can bury the past, keep himself guarded, but as his candle burns and drowns with the night, he knows.

He couldn’t bring himself to  _ not _ care.

Either through little bits of advice, offers, and company kept, the realization came slow as he traveled with the group. That he slowly found himself more involved, that he was started conversations more, that he ——

That he didn’t want to see them hurt. Not because of him.

Now  _ that — _ that realization cuts deep. Knowing this was his own personal bullshit, and yet they  _ cared, _ wanted to support him, wanted to see this through with him. Knowing that he cared about them too.

Therion winces, and swiftly curses under his breath as he turns in his bed.

This would have to wait until tomorrow, he decides.

For now… Rest. And how close of a break sleep could bring him.

Doctor’s orders, after all.


	2. i have to be better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as the travelers make a detour towards saintsbridge, primrose, cyrus, and h'aanit take the opportunity to get therion out of his head for a while — as, well, therion he may be.

_“You believed in them so much that, when you were betrayed, you never wanted to feel that way ever again.”_

_“I…”_

_“You understand, don’t you?_

_It’s believing in people that makes us strong.”_

* * *

The departure from Bolderfall is one taken with muted questions, half-replies, and restlessness lodged in Therion’s heart like a dagger of the finest steel. _It’s believing in people that makes us strong._ The eight words of faith that his... Employer, to call her, have said to him would be — _should_ be something the Therion from months ago claim as naivety. But instead, here he is. Almost a year later, with an abundance of things he never saw coming. Seven companions; a sister, a professor, a treasure hunter, a knight errant, a noble with a vendetta, a healer, and the last of an ancient clan.  
  
And no more masks. None left to hide behind.  
  
The eight of them make a plan soon enough; a straightforward one, true, but a functional one. A detour to Saintsbridge to deliver a message on behalf on the captain of Wellspring’s guard, then back to the Cliftlands to head north.

To Northreach. To Darius.

They find shelter for the night in the form of a renown riverside inn known as Leucothea’s Grotto. While not belonging to any particular city in the realm, it’s earned a name for itself as a large and reputable inn, both convenient and a must-see for travelers.

Hence why Therion finds himself here. Where he hoped to find time alone, but instead… Well.

“I needn’t repeat myself,” Primrose says. “Dance with me; give everyone here a good show!”

Oh, no. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that dancing with Primrose required dancing, being in front of people, and dancing in front of people.

Hell, the concept on its own is enough to make him shift in his seat, wondering why everyone in this group is so dead-set on all this _involvement._ “A thief thinks that this has a reason beyond ‘giving a good show.’”

Primrose sighs, twirling a curl away from her face as if in a ‘you got me’ motion. “Alright, fine — I give. I need a partner for a new dance; Ophilia and H’aanit are my first choices, but —”

“—but?”

“You know _‘but.’_ Ophilia simply doesn’t dance in public, and H’aanit—”

“—can’t. At all.”

“Thank you for seeing my point. And as for _men —”_

“—are men.”

She promptly groans into her hand. “—are men. And you know much more than Alfyn, Olberic, or Cyrus do —”

“— not like it says much —”

“— so look into your bi little heart, and help a woman out, alright?”

Therion huffs out a soft sigh, giving Primrose a _Look_ as he lets his head rest on his hand. He’ll admit, she had a point. He knew more than the basic moves for her dance style, she’d even dared to say he had a natural aptitude for it, _but —_

People. People, people, people.

He presses his lips together, and furrows his brow.

“So let me get this straight,” he begins, swiftly earning a stifled laugh out of the other. “You, Primrose —”

“Yes.”

“— want me to basically be your _beard_ on this dance you’re working on.”

“Precisely.”

Okay, _now_ he’s sure something’s up. Miss Perfectionist asking him — _him. —_ to dance something he’s unfamiliar with, with no motive behind it?

“Sorry,” Therion says, lips quirking into a frown. “But you’re gonna have to find another partner — as awfully sympathetic I am to your plight.”

“Oh, come now,” Primrose says. “What reason do you have to say no? This inn in particular has a wonderful piano, and a good stage to boot, _so…”_

Another good point. Leucothea’s Grotto was no quaint place, its dining room for the guests being large and well-furnished with impressive structure to boot; all noted by Therion for all the wrong reasons. Even _if_ he doesn’t plan on taking a leaf or two while he’s here.

 _“So,_ you’re asking a thief to put a spotlight on him,” Therion retorts. “The equivalent of asking our resident good noodle half-pint—” Jabbing a thumb in Tressa’s general direction. “—to swipe the heaviest coin pouch in the room.”

“Yes, well you’re not exactly on the job right now, are you?” She asks serenely, innocently quirking a brow at him.

“No, but. People.”

Primrose lets out a small sigh and crosses her arms with a smile. “Can’t that be a good thing, though? We’ve all seen you for _quite_ the performer during battle, if your cocky words and smiles are any indication — so why not take the opportunity to impress the people?” Her lips curl into something playful, which is _frankly —_ never. A good. Thing. “I can think of at least _two_ that come to mind in your case,” she says, and Therion follows her gaze to their two healers across the room.

“...Not happening,” he mutters after a pause, slouching behind his scarf. “Besides,” he says a little too quickly. “Now that we’re on the topic, I just _have_ to ask, ‘ _gee, Primrose, why do you get two girlfriends?”_

Therion’s (self-admittedly) lousy attempt at running away from his feelings is met with a roll of her eyes. “Because I have the guts to be honest with my feelings. And if you stop being such a — a _man,_ for five minutes, maybe you can snag a date too.”

He snorts. “That’s not what months of pining over H’aanit and Ophilia are telling me but _sure—”_ He’s cut off by a swift, yet light, hit over the head with Primrose’s fan.

“Oh, quiet you,” she snips at him. “Besides,” she looks again to Alfyn and Ophilia, chatting at another table. “There are worse types to have than _‘blondes’ —”_

“Okay!” Therion says, standing up with a soft clap of his hands. “Conversation over.”

He quickly walks to H’aanit and Cyrus on the other end of the room on impulse, because Alfyn and Ophilia are a death wish right now, and the aforementioned good noodle and Olberic are out training for fencing — said something about the Runelord they learned from? Mm, whatever. — by the inn’s grand piano.

H’aanit frowns, and raises her brows at his sudden (and rather huffy) appearance. “What troubleth this one?”

“He doesn’t want to be my partner in the dance I was hoping to do,” Primrose says, now fast behind him. “My apologies for that, Cyrus.”

“A shame, that,” Cyrus murmurs, looking up from the sheet music in his hands, and then it _clicks._

“You’re working together on this?” Therion asks with a furrowed brow and now crossed arms.

“Well, yes,” Primrose replies. “It’s been some time since we’ve had the opportunity to enjoy ourselves; especially somewhere as nice as this.”

“Indeed. It’s been far too long since I’ve sat at the piano, so this makes for some sorely-owed practice.”

“Huh,” Therion mutters. “So a lower-standard, high-motivation kind of deal, then.”

“In a way,” Primrose says. “Admittedly, collaborating — even on something as small as this — is difficult for me. I loathe to show anyone my performances until I know they’re as good as I can get them, but…” Her lips quirk into an almost-smile as she absentmindedly laces her fingers in-between H’aanit’s. “...Well. It’s high time I ease up on that.”

“I see. ...Still, ‘fraid I can’t take you up on the offer.”

H’aanit turns to give him a look, confusion playing onto her features. “Pray tell, for what reason dost thou refusest her?”

“Already told her,” Therion replies coolly, leaning against the piano. “You’re asking me to do the opposite of what I train to do: to stick to the shadows, and keep eyes off of me while I do what I do best.”

“But coulde thou not usest it as practice for your craft?”

“H’aanit makes an excellent point!” Cyrus exclaims. “Dancing requires a great amount of dexterity and grace, after all. For it to help you evade your enemies, it’d suit you perfectly.”

“Dexterity and grace,” Therion drawls. “So. Two things you don’t have; at all.”

Ah—” Cyrus says with a start. “Y-Yes, you could say that…”

“Lay off him, would you?” Primrose says. “He’s right, after all. If not that, why not think of it as both training and a challenge?”

“...A challenge.”

“Well, you knowing the fundamentals _and_ some of the more complex dances I’ve taught you, I would assume that it would be a good test of skill. But, unless you’re not up to the challenge…”

Therion shoots her a weary look, a frown tugging at his lips. “Is _that_ your best attempt? Because it’s not gonna work—”

“A pity,” H’aanit says. “Mayhap his skills aren’t what thou thoughtst they were.”

_“Hey –”_

“Maybe so,” Cyrus says. “You have my apologies, Primrose. We seemed to have miscalculate—”

Fuck it, that works.

 _“FINE._ Fine, I’ll do it,” Therion huffs, groaning into his hands after.

“That’s more like it,” Primrose says, a tad too cheerily for him to _not_ worry about. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

And _that_ is how Therion spent the night and day following going over a dance he’s never heard of; because challenges and insults to his pride are two things he can’t let die quietly, because those three _know_ this, because those three press his buttons until he’s run himself to a corner once again and now stands here — going over final steps, making it as good as one day of practice could, before they have their little performance.

 _It’ll be fun,_ Ophilia said as she takes a seat.

 _You’ll do great!_ Tressa said as she pushes him towards the stage. _How bad can it go?_

“If I have to wear an outfit for this, I’m running to live in the mountains and catching Alfyn a Chubby Cait,” Therion grumbles, as he side-eyes their group-slash-audience.

“Truth be told, I _did_ consider it at a point,” Primrose says, earning an indignant squawk from her companion. “But I’d say your outfit underneath your shawl and scarf suits it just fine.”

Therion looks down. Undershirt, left unbuttoned (mended, again and again; the stitches are barely visible now with his precision). Dark pants, boots. A violet and gold sash, and belts for a number of things.

“I’m surprised you leave your shirt unbuttoned at all times,” she says, not even bothering to cover up a snicker with her hand. “A twunk with full cleavage. Courageous.”

Therion instinctively crosses his arms. “...It gets stuffy sometimes.”

A snort — _now_ almost muffled by her hand, a rare sight to see out of someone previously so distant. “Well, never mind that now. Are you ready?”

“Would it matter at this point?” He asks through a smileless laugh, tilting his head towards the stage.

“Ah, fair. After you?”

Therion breathes a sigh through his nose before walking onstage, and never mind everyone in their group, eyes on them, eyes anticipating, _expecting,_ and never mind other patrons of the inn passing through, he’s more worried about messing up and making the both of them look like idio—

And Cyrus begins playing.

It’s a festival tune from a land outside of Orsterra, meant to welcome spring and new beginnings; one that Primrose had learned of and picked up on during the Merchant’s Fair. Upon hearing that, Therion gave her a dry look — up until she explained the fact of romantic connotations and _trust_ being a heavy factor into it.

Hence, Therion.

So they weave through the others moves, dancing close but never touching. Feet threatening to catch the other’s step and make it all fall apart. It’s almost a fight in their steps, and backed up by Cyrus’ quick tempo and eager tune, Therion sees no choice but to follow.

It’s spins, claps, steps, but more than that it was keeping mind of the rhythm and his partner, so to keep up the pace and remember his steps — so much the case that the small crowd, the worry that averted his gaze from was nothing but a memory.

And then, silence.

His feet are still, and it takes Therion a moment to realize that the song — along with their performance — is over.

The audience (their group, and other patrons) give he and Primrose an round of applause, which, while fantastic, don’t get him wrong, brings reminders of the thundering in his heart moments before their dance to the forefront of his mind.

“Gods, Therion, you actually look happy,” Primrose comments as they turn to face them.

A scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he shoots back, but there’s no mistaking it. Therion, famed master thief feared through all of Orsterra, is grinning like an idiot.

“You two were great!” Tressa greets them as they step off. “I didn’t know you could smile, Therion,” she jokes, her grin threatening to lopside in playfulness. “Like, a real one.”

“I just did what Primrose told me,” Therion replies. “Not like I could get out of it.”

“You wound me,” Primrose says. “You make it seem as though we goaded you into it.”

“Yeah. Because that’s _exactly_ what happened.”

“Ah, but before anything else,” Olberic cuts in from where he stands, arms crossed. “Drink some water, and pray let your body rest.”

Therion’s gaze flicks to the piano he stands next to, and two tall glasses of water on top of it. “...Right.”

The two of them walk over and get their share, Therion sitting himself down at a table with H’aanit, close to the piano Cyrus still sat at, the latter looking through the sheet music the inn had on hand.

“That was quite the show we put on,” Primrose says as she places her now-empty glass on the table. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could arguably go into it as a career. Maybe even just a side-job?”

“Well, I don’t,” Therion replies. “I mean, last I checked, you just wanted a partner who didn’t have the finesse of a newborn deer.”

“She doth poseth a good point,” H’aanit says. “While the two are hardly one and the same, the speed thou makest use of in battle, and the skill needed in the art of dance, who’s to say that one can’t help the other?”

“Exactly,” Primrose says. “After all, what I mean to say is that your physique is perfect for it.” She makes a point fix him with a scrutinizing look, and Therion realizes that for all the jabs and criticism she gave during their two days of practice, her focus when speaking on her craft is matched only by Cyrus; furrowed brows, a sharpness in her gaze rarely seen. “Lithe build, strong legs, and from what I recall, surprisingly impressive stamina — height aside, I’d say it’s close to ideal.”

He raises a brow. “You figured that out with just one dance?” A pause. “That’s… Pretty impressive, actually.”

“Of course,” she replies. “You learn to have an eye for these things, even if it’s merely observing a partner. And! As we mentioned before, it could help you practice. Training up your agility without drawing suspicion… It seems like something you could benefit from in the long run.”

Therion scowls. “Oh yes,” he deadpans. “I’ll challenge Darius to a dance-off and win the crowd over with the good ol’ _razzle dazzle.”_ He waves his hands in a move which _would be_ dramatic flair, if not for him still frowning as he does.

But where he should expect a comeback, only receives silence.

Earlier last night in mind, he can only give them a frustrated glare at the (lack-of) reaction. “Alright,” he mutters. “What is it.”

Cyrus glances up, wearing a quizzical expression. “That’s… The first time you’ve brought him up, is all; when the others have tried, no clear answer was given.”

“What _about_ him.”

“We hath thoughten that thou would refrain from touching upon the matter… Although, I see now it was wrong to assume.”

He bristles at the fact, hugging his arms close to him. Word about him was nothing new, even before people — these people — knew of him, of his face, of his name, tall tales about Orsterra’s master thief was nothing fresh to his ears. But, word about he and _Darius,_ now that. That brings the thundering in his ears, in his chest back, but rather from excitement and pride, it was something he hesitates to name.

“No point in sugarcoating it.” A sigh. “...I don’t see why you all are so invested.”

Primrose rolls her eyes. “Do you have to ask?”

His gaze falls to the floor, and he remains silent.

“Because we’re your _friends,_ you emotionally constipated clodpoll.”

Therion blinks. “...Oh,” he mutters, almost inaudible.

“Primrose is correct,” Cyrus says. “Has it crossed your mind why she brought us in to goad you into that performance?” He asks with well-meaning, maybe even playful smile.

He blinks again. “...You did that, so I’d stop—”

“— so thou would putten an end to thine moping, yes.”

Therion gives H’aanit a look. “Wasn’t moping.”

“Sure,” Primrose says with a wry smile. “And the smile from earlier in mind, I take it that it worked?”

“...Yes, it did,” Therion replies, his voice quiet. “But.. I still don’t _see;_ why put so much time, _investment,_ into me — when, I don’t know — we’ll all have to go separate at some point?”

“...It seems you _do_ have to ask.” Primrose mutters, before she breathes out a light sigh. “Look, Therion — look at us, alright?”

Therion does. With three pairs of eyes looking right at him, he feels as though they see right _through_ him instead. “...Okay.”

“Over the time we’ve traveled, something caught my eye when it came to you — that despite everything, you fight for us. You give us advice, sometimes, even offered us help. ...And possibly, most importantly of all, you stayed by our sides.

And, to be frank, if that isn’t how being a _friend_ is defined, then I truly don’t know what is.”

“Indeed,” H’aanit says with a firm nod. “I thinke… That no matter the distance, we are, and will remaine, comrades. And while the future is always something to keepeth mind of, that gives no reason to forsaketh the present.”

“Yes,” Cyrus says. “So should you think that we’ll simply let someone who’s remained by our sides to drown in his thoughts alone…” He smiles warmly, raising a brow at him. “...Then you have sorely underestimated how much we care for you.”

Therion lets the words sink in, with no words on his mouth. No witty comebacks. No mask to hide behind.

“I…” He coughs into his hand, before glancing back up to look at the three. And after a pause: “...Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Primrose says, her lips quirking into a small smile. “Simply telling you the truth. You are a part of us, after all. Always have been—”

“—and always will be,” Cyrus finishes, his tone softer, warmer.

“...Did you plan that too?” Therion asks with a wry smile.

Cyrus shakes his head. “Hardly. If I had to chalk it up to anything, I’d say it would simply be that we all feel the same.”

Therion breathes out a sigh through his nose. “Gotcha. ...Thanks. Again.”

The three give their respective signs of acknowledgement, and the world — which had felt like it had stopped in total, stopped _just_ to drill it through his skull that they cared, even though he never asked, never planned — is back in motion.

And he thinks, for a moment. About how in the past, it was not exactly a blur, but an abyss — something _there,_ something he catches a glimpse of almost on the daily. An abyss, filled to the brim of all things shit and grime, coalesced into a mass of darkness.

About how, with them, Cordelia, Heathcote, these seven, that while it remains, something he can’t avert his gaze from, maybe even something that grew darker with the things he’s seen on this journey, that this thing they have — _light,_ that’s it _—_ it seems to shine brighter with every trial, every battle.

About how they care, they care so damn much he’s kind of scared. And how if he’s really this, their ally, their — their _friend,_ then —

“I have to be better.”

Therion’s words are barely above a whisper, but they carry weight and quiet resolve.

Cyrus turns to him, giving him a look. “Did you say something, Therion?”

“It’s… It’s nothing,” he says. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

* * *

It isn’t long before one by one, the group note the time, and say their goodnight’s before heading to their perspective rooms. As Therion stands up from where he sits, and makes his way to the stairs, Primrose gives him another look; it’s one near identical to the one from before, piercing and observing.

“Call me crazy,” she says behind him as they walk up. “But if I didn’t know any better… I’d say you have a new look about you.”

Therion turns his head to glance at her. “...Meaning?”

“I see it in your eyes. ...I dare say, they had the same look as mine did at a point,” Primrose continues, as they stop at the doorway to Therion’s room. “Haunted… Pained. But now, I see something else. A light. ...Fire, if you’re feeling dramatic.”

Therion frowns, crossing his arms. “A light.”

“Yes.” She smiles an almost-smile, giving him an odd look. “You look like nothing short of the embodiment of defiance now. A man who simply refuses to die until he sees his goal through.”

He stands in silence, gaze to the floor. And while the question of what she means sits on his tongue, in the next moment when he looks up, she’s already rounded the corner ahead, and left.

* * *

 

Therion gracelessly falls on top of his bed, shawl and scarf still folded in his hands. The adrenaline from before is long dead, meaning that in the end he’s left with

exhaustion, but not one that will stop the dreams,

words and memories, restless thoughts,

and an undershirt long dried of sweat, but still smelly. A part of him now wishes he _did_ wear an outfit for this now.

Therion sits up.

He gets ready for bed once again, notes to wash his clothes in the morning. His scarf and shawl sit folded on his bedside desk. Balm next to them, to help with aching scars. His sword leaning on his bed, its hilt adorned with charms and herbs; a rare spot of superstition and weakness. His dagger by his pillow; a just-in-case, with another, but sole charm on its hilt. A bow, quiver, and axe by his chair, on top of which sits his undershirt and pants. He’s settled on using his spares for the night.

He lets out a sigh as he pulls his covers up, Cordelia, Alfyn, and now Cyrus, Primrose, and H’aanit’s words, stirring his heart even as he tries to sleep. So much involvement, so much he didn’t ask for, nor he thought he deserved.

And Therion thinks, wonders about that light; that maybe it’s not something that he holds in himself, but something that they do — something he only reflects.

Yeah, maybe that's it.

A little light. A reflection of his allies. His… Friends.

A reflection of what he fights for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some quick meta on this chapter, i didn’t do so on alf’s chapter because he’s likely gonna get a second one with the noble path characters with how short it may compare to future ones but:
> 
> the rogue path characters were right to goad therion into dancing with a challenge, i mean look at his chapter one — this little shit can’t resist a challenge, especially one that ties into his *ahem* Skillset. therion’s likely to do whatever to improve in his craft, plus when you’re being goaded by These disasters… i imagine there’s little option.
> 
> the tone for this chapter is, of course, notably different from the first; went from digging up some fine trauma to I Don’t Dance from HSM2. just remember, the goal for this is not only to explore therion’s character development but also just to have more stuff for the travelers? plus, i can’t make this all heavy.
> 
> EDIT, i forgot to add this: therion’s also notably less snippy here. less temperamental, but with frayed nerves, with a lot on his mind. the fact that the rest of the travelers are just, calling him tf out (correctly, at that) is a wake-up call, and coupled with everything else it’s a lot. which… does get talked about, don’t worry.
> 
>  **some notes on therion’s appearance, in my headcanon:**    
>  **dark skin (filipino hc therion for the win heeho),** with scars on much of his body. notably his side and back from the cliffside, one on the bottom of his right cheek, and a thin scar over his left eye, now covered by his hair. the scars on his side/back and left eye are courtesy of darius (thanks a lot asshat), and yeah he doesn’t let anyone see ‘em. at least until what happened in TN’s chapter one.  
>  **central heterochromia,** because i saw that his references were inconsistent and ran with it. green on the outer edges of his iris, brown near the center.  
>  **notably well-kept, often mended clothes, along with decently kept hair,** because when you’re poor you learn to keep stuff in order like that, so yes he does know how to sew and etc. ‘specially with the amount of money he makes through his thievery, i imagine he does take the opportunity to clean himself when he does especially considering the lack Of that in his childhood.
> 
> a note on the polytravelers situation: in terms of the current status, because geez i might actually have to make a chart for them at this rate, primrose, h’aanit, and ophilia? they’re all dating. olberic, it’ll take a good time before he’s ready to just. have a relationship, even if he isn’t settling down to do so (though for the record everything i write for him does go out to the olberic / erhardt corner of the fandom). tressa’s out of everyone’s age range, but she, ali, noa? bi disasters. therion, it’ll also take a while for him to just be Okay to be in a relationship, but to the therion/alfyn and therion/ophilia shippers? you’re in luck ;9  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/thiefexp)
> 
> if you liked this chapter, be sure to leave kudos or a comment!


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